


His Whole World

by elephantfootprints



Series: His Whole World [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John is Sherlock's father, Kid Fic, Kid Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantfootprints/pseuds/elephantfootprints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Of course, the real reason Sherlock didn’t mind his that his mother had died was that if she had lived he would have been raised by her and not John and John was his absolute favourite person in the entire world.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(Spoilers for The Sign of the Three)</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Whole World

**Author's Note:**

> Written after seeing LadyPrydian's comment on [this gifset](http://ladyprydian.tumblr.com/post/72609494115/cumberfoil-im-riversong-changing-the-subject). (Note: this is a gif of something from The Sign of the Three! Do not click this link or read this fic if you don't want this episode to be spoiled!)

Sherlock didn’t care that his mother was dead. Of course he wouldn’t. Why would he mind? It was ages ago. Also he had been all of six months old when she died and though he knew that experiences during those first six months could have a profound impact a baby’s development, he didn’t actually remember her. Who she was was quite irrelevant beyond the fact that she had apparently taken adequate care of him.

Of course, the real reason he didn’t mind his mother was dead was that if she had lived he would have been raised by her and not John and John was his absolute favourite person in the entire world.

*

Sherlock knew he had been an accident. He worked it out when he was seven, not long after he had learned about procreation. Statistically, it was quite likely, given the youth of his parents, the informality of their relationship, their limited incomes, the fact that John didn’t know about his existence until he was nearly four-years old. Pleased with himself at his little deduction, Sherlock promptly found John to verify his conclusion, as was his habit.

“John,” Sherlock began, because he didn’t call John anything as childish as ‘daddy’ or even ‘father’. John immediate put down the book he was reading and looked seriously at his little boy standing in front of him, trying to look coolly disinterested in what he was about to say, his hands were trembling slightly. “I was an accident, wasn’t I?”

“Of course you were an accident,” John said, smiling at him fondly and reaching out to brush back an errant curl. Sherlock appreciated that John was always honest with him. He really did. Sherlock hated having people lie to him. As though he couldn’t see through them immediately. Being lied to was inconvenient and frankly insulting to his intelligence. So when he has asked that question, he knew John wouldn’t lie, that it was really only asked so that he could receive verbal confirmation of what he already knew to be true and therefore it was quite nonsensical that John’s reply gave him a sense of sinking disappointment and he was overwhelmed with the feeling that he wasn’t wanted, had never been wanted, would never be wanted-

“Look at you, you’re an absolute marvel, how could you be anything else?” John continued, interrupting Sherlock’s spiralling panic. He slid his hand down Sherlock’s cheek to cup his jaw, forcing him to keep eye contact. “Do you really think I had the brains to plan you? That I am capable of imagining anything close to the wonder that is you? If it had been left up to me, I’d have done it all wrong, and I thank God every day that I was allowed to have you even though I am a complete idiot who can’t fathom just how amazing you are.”

 Sherlock wasn’t so sold on this omniscient ‘God’ person, and he didn’t know if John was either, not really, but that didn’t matter because all that did matter was that Sherlock suddenly didn’t mind that he had been an accident. 

“Oh,” Sherlock said, and because even though he had been near-silent for the first four years of his life, around John he was incapable of being quiet for more than a few seconds, added, “Well that’s certainly true. You can’t even be trusted to pick out good Chinese restaurants.”

  John laughed and Sherlock climbed into his lap, arms wrapping around John’s neck as he snuggled in. John pulled him in closer, unable to understand how even though Sherlock was growing in leaps and bounds, he fit more and more perfectly in John’s arms every day.

*

Sherlock wasn’t upset when John decided he wanted to marry Mary. Sherlock actually liked Mary and she made John happy and he was twelve which was far too old to still want to be your father’s entire world. It had taken him off guard, that was all. Even though his father was still reasonably young, well, wasn’t _that_ old, and by all accounts a desirable sort of man for a husband, handsome, good job, brave, funny, genius son etc., Sherlock hadn’t considered that John might get married. John didn’t have the time for that sort of thing, not really, between work and helping Sherlock try to start his detective career (Sherlock having recently discovered that a career in proper piracy was no longer a viable option without some sort of time machine and so changed future vocations). Foolishly, when Sherlock had vetted John’s newest nurse, he had failed to take note of the fact that she was of a similar age to John, attractive, with a fantastic sense of humour and excellent taste in men. 

Because he desperately wanted John to be happy, Sherlock threw himself into making sure that John knew just how very okay Sherlock was with John marrying Mary and how happy he was being replaced as John’s favourite person. With the help of Mary, Sherlock organised the seating arrangements, ordered flowers, sampled cakes and canapés, created the perfect menu, shouted at the man in the suit shop, explained in painstaking detail to John the difference between purple and lilac. One night Mary found him folding napkins at three in the morning, and stood watching him sadly for a few minutes. She managed to slip away unnoticed and returned to bed, shaking John awake.

“What’s wrong?” John said, waking instantly, and sitting up, looking around the room alertly. “Is it Sherlock? Has be set the kitchen on fire again?”

  “No,” Mary said softly. “It's much worse, he’s folding napkins. Has been for hours if the piles of swans and opera houses and fans and god knows what else are any indication. He’s still stressed about the wedding.”

“Yeah,” John said sadly, touching Mary’s cheek gently. “I’ll talk to him.”

*

“Sherlock?” John said softly, navigating his way around the origami napkins to sit next to Sherlock. “Hey, buddy, what’s up?”   John winced at the moniker, neither he nor Sherlock were ones for pet names, but he was feeling completely out of his depth. Eight years of calmly dealing with the chaos that poured out of Sherlock and yet he was completely unprepared for this sort of crisis.

“Rabbits are a bit too Easter themed, don’t you think?” Sherlock replied absently, picking up a cream napkin and waving it in John’s face. “That connection will certainly be made at a May wedding.”

John accepted the folded rabbit, distracted for a moment by how genuinely good it was. 

“Sherlock,” John said again, more firmly. He shut the lid on Sherlock’s laptop and tugged the napkin from his hand. “I know you’re a bit anxious about me marrying Mary.”  

“Anxious?” Sherlock repeated. “As long as I can settle on a napkin design by six, I’m completely on schedule. Nothing to worry about.”  

“I don’t just mean about the wedding,” John said. “Although I’m fairly certain we’ve talked about you not staying up all night before.”  

Sherlock looked sheepish for a moment and John reached over to gather him into his lap, and even though Sherlock was twelve and terribly grown up and all long limbs and sharp knees, John enjoyed the having him there more than ever. He didn’t know what he was going to do in a few years when he could no longer hold Sherlock like this, when Sherlock became too large, too interested in the rest of the world, when Sherlock discovered there were vastly more interesting people than his dad out there.

“You know it won’t alter anything, right, me and Mary getting married?” John said carefully. “We’ll still be doing... all this.”

“Folding napkins at three in the morning?” Sherlock said. “Because I’m fine not doing this again until you next get married, actually.”

John tickled Sherlock’s ribs, enjoying the way he still squirmed and giggled, and then cuddled into John, open and trusting as he never was with anyone else.

“I meant spending time together, being father and son,” John said, when Sherlock had calmed down. “All that sort of thing. You’re still my favourite person in the whole world.”

“Oh, good,” Sherlock said, sounding dismissive, as though such a fear had never crossed his mind.

“If you were worried,” John said.

“I wasn’t worried,” Sherlock huffed.

“Of course you weren’t,” John said. “The thing about Mary, she has completely turned my life around. Changed everything. But for the record, over the last few years there are two people who have done that, and the other-”

  “Was me,” Sherlock said softly. “I know how disruptive a child can be to your life.”

  “Disruptive?” John repeated, surprised, unsure where Sherlock had heard that sentiment, and more than a little worried Sherlock felt this way. “Is that what you call it when someone hands you a genius four-year-old that fills your boring grey world with colour and who you can't help but adore more and more each day?”

Sherlock looked as though he very much wanted to criticise John for his flowery way of talking, but he was tired and simply rested his head on John’s shoulder instead.

“Come on, let’s go to bed,” John said. “And then tomorrow I’ll kick Mary out and we can spend the day together doing anything you can think of that is not wedding related.”

“You don’t have to-” Sherlock started to protest.

“No, I really do,” John said. “I feel like I haven’t seen you for weeks and I’ve missed you.”

  “We live in the same house,” Sherlock pointed out. “We see each other every day.”

  “And it’s never enough,” John said. He kissed Sherlock’s forehead and hefted him up, sighing as he recalled how much easier lifting Sherlock was when he was three feet tall and only weighed two and half stones. 

*

“This wine is bloody awful,” Mary said, taking another sip. Beside her, Sherlock made a derisive noise, keeping a keen eye on the arriving guests. The wedding had gone smoothly, but it was the reception he was most worried about.

“You should have let me select the wines,” Sherlock said absently.

 “I thought it would be safer to corrupt you once John couldn’t get rid of me,” Mary replied. “After today it will be all booze and cigarettes all the time.” 

Sherlock smiled, and for the first time that day, his mind stopped compulsively listing all the things that still needed to be done. And it suddenly became clear what his speech after the first dance could be.

*

“Today John and Mary exchanged vows,” Sherlock said. “Swearing love and fidelity and all that rot.” There was a murmur of laughter at this, Sherlock’s distaste at such romantic rubbish giving the guests at last behaviour that was recognisable as ‘normal’ for a twelve-year-old boy.

“What they were really doing, when it comes down to it, was publicly declaring that they are now a family,” Sherlock continued. He swallowed hard and forced himself to keep his voice steady. “And I just wanted to add to that. John, Mary, I won’t be calling you Mum and Dad or anything ridiculous like that, but John is my father, and that means we’re all family now and so I suppose I should make some kind of declaration to that end.”

Sherlock sought out John’s face in the crowd, startled to see he was sniffling slightly. “I just want you to know that as my family, I will try to always be there for all three of you. I mean both of you! Not three, just two. Thank you, now you can dance.”

Sherlock awkwardly shoved the microphone at one of the bridesmaids, and clambered off the stage, walking quickly over to John and Mary, plastering a large smile on his face.

“Sherlock,” John said slowly. “That was lovely, thank you.”

Sherlock gave a shy nod.

“Of course, I’m fairly certain you can count,” John said. “So what did you mean by three?”  

Sherlock looked at Mary. 

“If I were you, I would take a pregnancy test,” Sherlock said, and proceeded to outline his evidence for his conclusion about Mary’s state. John and Mary gave him identical looks of shock, before turning to beam at each other, sharing a quick kiss.

“How did I miss that?” John asked, bewildered. “I’m a doctor and he’s twelve-bloody-years old.”

“It’s your day off,” Sherlock said, his smile growing brittle the longer he held it. Mary ruffled Sherlock’s hair.

 “It’s meant to be your day off too,” Mary reminded him.

Sherlock shrugged and swallowed hard, before saying, as lightly as he could, “At least you won’t have to worry about John’s skills as a father. He’s had eight years practice with me, so I think he’s bound to get it right now that he’s doing it properly.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mary murmured.

“Sherlock,” John said very softly, crouching down and putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “We might not have been a stereotypical family, but that doesn’t mean what we have isn’t real, isn’t just as good as what Mary, you and I have together. Things might change in some ways, but you will still be my precious baby boy. Just because I will love this new baby, doesn’t mean I have to stop loving you, or that I will love you any less.” 

“John,” Sherlock said, scowling. “I am twelve-years-old, I’m hardly a baby.” 

“I’m your father, Sherlock, that means I will continue to see you as my baby until you are one hundred and twelve,” John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

“Though medical advanced mean that it is possible _I_ will live to be one hundred and twelve, there is no way _you_ will still be alive at one hundred and thirty-six-”

Sherlock’s speech was cut off with a yelp as John swept Sherlock into a breath-takingly tight hug. Sherlock squirmed a little against this treatment, before giving in and throwing his arms around John.

“Come on, let’s dance,” Mary said, once Sherlock and John broke apart.

“All three of us?” Sherlock asked skeptically. 

“Of course,” John said, grabbing Mary’s hand, and one of Sherlock’s as Mary took the other and started dancing with exaggerated enthusiasm until Sherlock laughed, giving in to their absurdity and joining them. 


End file.
